


Red Swan, Black Sparrow

by BlueNeutrino, Violetlyvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballerina Dean, Ballet AU, Betrayal, Dark fic, Deception, Demon Sam, Dom sub undertones, M/M, Minor Character Death (not TFW), Plot Twists, dystopian au, grace exchange, sci fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-11-02 03:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20601701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetlyvanilla/pseuds/Violetlyvanilla
Summary: After the apocalypse, the archangels divided up the world amongst themselves and only the United States remain under the control of the militant hunter dynasty of the Winchesters. Under the guise of a ballet dancer, Castiel infiltrates the American Ballet Academy with the intention of assassinating Dean Winchester during a performance. Things don’t go to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With much thanks to IndigoNeutrino for all your encouragement, your design and colour and drawing skills are incredible and I love everything you’ve shown. 
> 
> Also with thanks to the Dark Fic Bang mods jscribbles and malmuses who are lovely and sweet and hilarious and always have the best challenges and fun ideas.

At 41, Dmitri Krushnic, the Russian ballet star, was past the age of retirement - had he been human. What most people did not know, and a closely guarded secret of Michael's administration, was that Dmitri Krushnic did not exist. He was a fictitious cover made for the angel Castiel, so that he could dance under the famous stage name and travel the world. To Asia where Raphael held sway, or to the African continents where Lucifer ran his reign of desolation and to Oceania the somewhat neutral playground of Gabriel. The whole world over, bar the land of the short lived and free, America. The last remaining place where humanity still controlled their own territory and any angels who dared to tread were quickly disposed of by roaming armies of hunter militias. It was an exciting world to live in.

Castiel was less angelic than his comrades. A long time ago, his grace had been taken away for some infringement or another that he no longer recalled, though he knew his handler Naomi had something to do with how he was brought back into the fold. His position was precarious to say the least. So of course when the near suicidal mission of infiltrating the Winchester government was conceived, Castiel was the one assigned the role. It was a simple scheme, attend the American Ballet Academy as an instructor, perform for the president and assassinate him. It was rumoured that one of the Winchesters was an admirer of Castiel's Swan Lake production, so it seemed not infeasible that the plan would come to fruition.

As far as the files showed, the ruling Winchesters were already corrupted by old age. There were rumours that Sam Winchester lived on demon blood, his soul defiled and that Dean Winchester was somehow still alive as a mortal, hundreds of years after the so called angel apocalypse where the archangels carved up ownership of the earth. Michael had a photograph of Dean, from forty-four years ago, taken surreptitiously by an agent. It showed a silver haired man with bright green eyes, sitting in a garden full of carvings of angels, his weathered face still commanding and handsome. Though his throne was a wheelchair and behind it, holding onto the handles, black eyed Sam. It was a file photograph that Castiel liked to stare at, there was something in the Winchester tyrant's expression, some shadow in his emerald eyes, the wry curve of his mouth that fascinated Castiel. Somehow, the photograph came away from the secured briefing room with him, nestled in the inner pocket of his trench coat. He turned up his collars against the whipping Moscow wind, feeling the cold as any mortal would, though his angelic heart was eternal. Or so he was told by Michael, it did not matter that Castiel was depleted and diminished, his frailty only made his cover more convincing. He was even ageing slowly, expression lines creeping into his face, weariness in every line of his body. Those things Michael liked and he even attended the Russian ballet tours Castiel danced in. Sat in the darkness and clapped, eyes glowing with grace, when the red curtains pooled behind Castiel, standing to applaud him as his legs spasmed in pain and his feet felt like demons hooves seared by sanctified ground.

The flight to the United States, abroad a supersonic jet, heavily guarded, was brief. It offered no simulation of actual flight. Was agonisingly slow compared to wings, like crawling for a shooting star. Even the view was dismal, overcast and grey, the sunset pale and washed out in dimming blue light, the oceans awash with white-capped waves, darkness seeping into the sky and sea. Castiel listened to Wagner's Valkyries and dreamed of flights he could not grasp in his memory.

The welcoming party were rag tag in their dress, turning curious eyes on Castiel's stiff formal outfit. Michael was fond of pomp and ceremony, so Castiel disembarked to the strains of the Russian national anthem played over a low-fi speaker. His suit jacket was black, with accents of red and gold. His cap bore the crimeson star. His trousers tight and uncomfortable to wear. Though the black leather boots that rose to cover his knees were comfortable to walk in (and provided some padding when he offered his nightly obligatory prayers). Which he was required to do often, as sign of repentance and submission for forgtten sins. Naomi kept a log and there were words if he slacked off. Interviews if he seemed to waver in his arduousness.

The assembled people at the airport bore the signs of degraded humanity, sunburnt faces, scarred flesh, ungroomed hair and broad brazen smiles. They looked at Castiel with somewhat jeering expressions, there were no fans with huge bunches of flowers the way Michael always arranged things for the propaganda newspapers back home. Here they watched him dubiously, though a few young people in leggings, with dancer's legs, did give him some lukewarm claps. They must have been sent from the academy, probably students. The American ballet institutions were barely staffed, the arts had all but collapsed under the strain of an insular economy. Castiel theorised Sam Winchester was the influence behind the survival of ballet in the hunters' republic, since he was the one with a more an artistic reputation.

The anthem died off and the cabin door to the jet slammed shut. The plane slowly taxied down the runaway for refuelling and its return flight. Without further fanfare, Castiel was directed off the tarmac. The car that picked Castiel up was a boxy jeep, the driver wearing green khakis and red flannel and an overawed expression. He was holding a small bunch of meadow flowers. In Russia, in the Imperial palaces and the Bolshi theatres Castiel was accustomed to hot house roses. Dark crimson chalices that smelt of nothing, with waxy thick petals and armed with thorns. The driver was young and blushing when he held forth the weedy bunch of forget-me-nots. Castiel could see the weed infested patches by the airport fence bore such wild growth in excess. Though the gesture was endearing and as he gathered the loose bouquet into his lap, the bruised flowers threw forth an intoxicating scent that pleased Castiel unexpectedly.

Castiel had never met anyone quite like Dean Smith, his driver, who talked and talked and never shut up. Except when their eyes met and Dean would gasp and (again) blush and look away. Castiel is not sure what is so intimidating about his presence, he knew he had a hawkish look that flustered stage directors and his temper when it came to rehearsals was notoriously explosive. Yet Dean did not seem too put out by Castiel's reputation as a prima donna and he extended a warm hand for Castiel to shake, while he drove on in swooping loops through the airport. As if he didn't quite know the way out or want the journey to end.

"I'm Dean, like Dean Winchester, but every second guy here is Dean and every other is Sam. And the women are Deannas and Samanthas. Which makes dating confusing as fuck," Dean swore then laughed. "I mean there are the other popular hunter names like Bobby and Benny and Rufus and Claire, but I got Dean. Should I call you Dmitri or Mr Krushnic?"

"Actually, Dean," Castiel said in a measured voice, though the compulsion to share his real name was strange. "You can call me Cas."

"Cas? What's that short for?" Dean asked, all curiosity and freckled dimples.

"Short for Cassiel, angel of solitude and tears." Castiel said, covering for his lapse with a brief explanation. "We are expected to name ourselves after angels to show aspiration for divinity despite our human failures."

"Cheerful," Dean turned the jeep through the streets of Washington, there wasn't any traffic. "But I suppose we get named after famous hunters so you guys get angel names, what with being enslaved by them and all."

Castiel clenched his teeth to smother a laugh. Of course he would encounter political opinions in America that would be criminal to voice back home. "I suppose you are not a diplomat."

Dean grinned, his tongue licking his bottom lip nervously.

"Nor are you a spy," Castiel said. "A spy would have more sense than to say something so inflammatory to a new arrival fresh off Michael's private jet."

"Maybe I'm a really good spy," Dean waggled his eyebrows, he laughed so easily, it was irksome and disarming all at once. "It's always the ones you don't suspect."

And there was much looking up and down Castiel's vessel, eyes roaming from the starched mandarin collars of his military jacket to his fitted waist and well cut trousers.

"Damn," Dean gasped out after a minute or so of roaming interest. The lights had turned green and then red again, no horns sounded. "Does it take you long to get dressed in the mornings? I threw together this outfit like in 5 minutes. I know, it looks good on me anyway, its a knack."

All the time Dean's mouth was racing his eyes lingered.

"You're staring," Castiel stated. "Should be looking at the road, Dean."

"Yeah Cas, I was just, checking out your ... war medals," Dean was all wide eyed curiosity and appealing innocence. "There are so many, what'd you get them for? Smiting? Warring?"

"They are decorative, mostly, though I am told some I have earned but I do not really recall how. Our ballet troupe is used for diplomatic services and entertaining the troops. So technically I am a Commander, my charges are the Bolshi Ballet, The Saint Petersburg Ballet, The Patriotic Dancers Academy etcetera. Believe me, you would not like to fight a garrison of soldiers who have the stamina to perform The Nutcracker."

Dean snorted. "No infantry could out kick Balanchine's demi-soloist flowers."

That got Castiel's attention. "Are you familiar with his choreography of the Nutcracker? Do you work at the American Ballet Academy?"

Dean's face turned a peach blossom shade of pink, he made flustered sounds. "I'm not a student, I'm just a general assistant. I drive important people around, do odd repair jobs, look after the gardens, uh, sometimes I have to clean the toilets if the janitors are off. I mean, if you think about it, I keep the place running."

Castiel gave Dean an appraising smile.

"I could uh drive you around if you like, take charge of you, make sure you don't get lost or something," Dean offered. "It's not so busy now in the off season, I got the time if you want."

"I will give some consideration to your offer," but of course he would never accept it, having another pair of eyes following him, even if Dean was really the simple staff member he appeared, would be disastrous for Castiel's plans.

Even if Dean was an utterly beautiful distraction.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Ballon!" Castiel commanded but Ruby landed heavily on the soles of her feet. "What is that, that is like the green man, with the large fists!"

Ruby glared at Castiel and with a defiant pant sunk to the floor, tearing off her black tutu with a foul tempered expletive.

"Is it the French that you don't understand, ballon means to float and land gracefully and lightly like a balloon," Castiel said with a scowl. "You are the Black Swan are you not?"

"I think you just called her The Hulk," Dean said, propped up on the handle of a mop, his legs crossed idly at the ankles as he peered into the rehearsal hall. "Which, I gotta be honest, is a little mean Cas. I gotta show you some other films in the MCU."

Ruby raised her eyebrows at them. Castiel, who everyone addressed respectfully as Mr Krushnic in the academy, frowned.

"Mr Smith is indoctrinating me on turn of the century American popular culture," he said stiffly by way of excuse.

"As pretty as he is to look at, you do know he's a thirty-five year old glorified janitor right?" Ruby stood up haughtily, poking her tongue out at Dean while she marched out of the rehearsal hall. "Find yourself another swan, Mr Krushnic, and don't worry, my father will hear of this insult and he is a third generation Campbell cousin to Sam and Dean Winchester. Good luck getting your performance in front of the president."

With Ruby's shadow dragging along the floor, till at last it crept out of the hall, Castiel heaved a sigh of relief. The sun was setting, with her departure three weeks of his efforts went down the drain. Though she was bad tempered and slack at practice, she was the most promising dancer he had found in the sparse talents available to him in the American Ballet Academy. Such was the price to pay for a militia based army, anyone young enough and able enough found more social status in learning the art of war than the fine arts. Ruby did have an understudy but Meg was an inexperienced performer with no political connections to anyone. The chances of securing a performance in front of the president was seeming more dim than ever. His side would want news soon but he had scarcely even obtained the opportunity to meet the president let along had any chance of performing for him. As far as the information Castiel was able to gather at state dinners, Sam Winchester was the effective head of the state now. He had the title of Vice President and could be seen in presidential press releases. Dean Winchester had not been seen in public for forty years. He was dead for all the world knew, though orders continued to issue to hunters in his name.

"You okay Cas? You know I was joking about taking you out of the MCU, I mean the DC stuff is okay and Wonder Woman is great. But uh do you think I can push the friendship further by showing you some Winter Solider? Maybe if you let me crash on your couch, we could Civil War as well?"

Castiel thought guiltily of the time he had spent with Dean in the privacy of his serviced apartment. It had begun with a casual delivery of his hand annotated choreography notes for Swan Lake, which he had left behind in the dressing room. Then Dean was telling him about pizza, how the local place was famous for its anchovy and chilli blended pizza sauce. Castiel had been mesmerised by the idea of a pizza pie, filled with variant savoury toppings and smothered in stringy cheese. Or perhaps it was imagining the soft white runny strands trailing down Dean's fingers that made him invite the man inside with a solemn nod. Dean, however, proved cheerful and friendly company. Nothing untoward happened, nothing sexual, except the strange feeling of familiarity, the scent of home when Dean sat down on the stiff cold couch beside him. Instantly warming up the luxurious surroundings with his homely presence. The cup of tea Dean had made, commandeering supplies from Castel's cabinets, was rich and sweetened with honey, a splash of cream just how Castiel liked it.

So pizza had turned into a film, then two, then one evening a week, always on a Thursday. At work, Dean greeted him politely, the few times Castiel could find him. Distantly, as if they weren't even acquainted. Then he would show up, unannounced at Castiel's apartment, some treat or another, cheese burgers, waffle stacks, tacos, filling Castiel's loneliness with savouriness and spice. It was a strange relationship.

Now Dean was walking in, casting aside his mop like he didn't care if anyone saw him slack off. The other students and staff were long gone, Castiel flicked on the lights. The chandelier, in need of cleaning, cast a warm yellow light on the parquetry floor. Castiel watched Dean in the wall to wall mirror of the grand rehearsal hall, bending slowly to retrieve the torn black tutu castaway by the runaway ballerina.

"It feels kinda stiff," Dean touched the material of the skirt with a nervous expression. "I wonder how it would feel, on um, on skin."

"Tends to be a little scratchy on the top of the ass globe, if yours is round enough," Castiel said matter of factly, enjoying the way Dean blushed.

"I'll uh take your word for it," Dean gestured towards Castiel with the tutu.

Something about the way Dean's thumb was still tracing over the netting made Castiel shake his head.

"You can keep it if you like," he said.

"Uh yeah, I mean it was on the floor, like that's practically rubbish and its my job to uh keep the place tidy and all." Dean was smiling gratefully, whispering a quiet. "Thanks Cas."

The fact that Dean had not called him Mr Krushnic made Castiel's chest feel inexplicably warm.

"Would you like to watch me rehearse, Dean?" Castiel asked politely, on the rare occasions he had seen Dean around the ballet school was when he had caught Dean watching him rehearse late into the evenings. While his days were filled with polishing up dancers in the academy, Castiel spent his free time in the evenings to do his own training.

Dean sat down on the floor slowly, the tutu held reverently in his hands, as he watched Castiel move through a passage of the score. Biting his lips when Castiel shifted from a pirouette into an arabesque.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You don't need to stop," Castiel said when he saw Dean standing at the barre, his shirt tied around his waist, his chest bare, jeans slung low on his hips. His hand raised over his head, his waist bent.

Dean emanated embarrassed silence when Castiel steadied him, giving him a small lift to find his balance on his toes.

"Move your fingers like so," Castiel made minor adjustments. "And centre your hips."

Dean's eyes softened when he looked at their reflections. "Beautiful," they both whispered at the same time.

Castiel cleared his throat. "Why don't you show me how you move?"

Dean batted his eyes uncertainly. "Not sure if I can do it in these jeans."

They were washed out denim, soft to the touch, with a little give in the fabric.

"You could try on the tutu," Castiel suggested helpfully.

Dean looked aghast. "No way, I mean what are people gonna say when they see me all dressed up in a tutu?"

"That you look like the black swan," Castiel said patiently. "That you are beautiful? That's what I would say."

"But ... Cas," Dean's voice dropped into a hiss. "That would look, you know, girly. Effeminate."

Castiel gave Dean a long assessing glance. "Precisely."

Castiel's first ever pair of ballet shoes, when he chose the art as a cover, was a pale petal pink. He had been fond of it. Dean's freckled cheeks assumed the exact same hue. Dean swallowed, pulling open his duffle bag and there nestled in its own silk encasing was the black swan's tutu.

Very carefully, Castiel helped Dean slip it on, the narrow waist band struggling past the swell of Dean's ass but ultimately sat on the narrow of hips gorgeously. Dean looked down at his lap with an awed expression, going en-pointe almost immediately, flicking his right leg out behind him. Castiel put a firm hand on Dean's ankle.

"No, not with the jeans," Castiel reprimanded. The tutu had transformed the air between them all of a sudden. Castiel needed to push Dean a little closer to perfection. "Take it off Dean."

"And wear tights?" Dean let out a huff of awkward laughter. "I wouldn't be caught dead with my dick on display like that."

Castiel gave Dean a sardonic look and flicked his eyes towards his own lower half. Castiel always danced in tights, then they were constrictive it was much easier to see the lines of his legs. Dean's eyes followed Castiel's glance and slid down his waist and became stuck in his lap.

"I think I look good," Castiel said confidently. "I have them in pink as well, if you wish to borrow some.

Dean seemed to shudder at the thought. "I uh I'll think about that Cas."

"The offer stands," Castiel said, taking control. "Now, take off your pants."

Dean's hands flew to his waist band as if bespelled and he quickly undid the button and opened the zip, his faded jeans were halfway down his legs before he cursed and tried to pull them up again. He hissed when Castiel's hands caught him by the wrist. Dean was trembling when Castiel with agonising slowness pulled them down to his ankles.

"I forgot," Dean's voice was plaintive. "Shit, Cas. I forgot."

Castiel remained kneeled on the floor, his knees starting to feel the hardness of the timber, but he was frozen too at the sight of Dean's small neat briefs. Women's briefs, blush pink and hi-cut bikini briefs, in which Dean's genitals were snuggly embraced. There was a tiny white bow at the centre front of them, where Dean curved and peeked out a little as Castiel stared.

"Adagio," Castiel murmured when he finally found his voice. "Relax Dean."

The sound of his voice seemed to have the opposite effect on Dean's lower half but he did rock back on his heels. Castiel climbed back on his feet and stood with his back to Dean, to give him a chance to recover his composure. And perhaps so that Dean could not see what Castiel was doing to his own tights.

"Copy my movements," Castiel raised his arm and leg. "Soft and easy please."

Though his mind was screaming at him to turn around and look at Dean. Though he could feel the prickle of the tutu's hem on the back of his thighs, even through the tights. They moved through the music, then Castiel felt it, the sudden whisk of air behind him.

He turned to see Dean dancing with his eyes closed. His body turning and moving to the music, limbs drawing out in movements the strain of the strings, his muscles enmeshed with the waves of sound. For the first time since their meeting, Castiel saw Dean moving with abandoned ease, balancing gracefully on his toes. He had self taught the positions and movements and though a novice he had natural grace. Castiel could not help but think of Odette's transformation into a swan as he watched Dean dance with wild abandon, like he was hearing the music of the spheres and some beating bird heart was trying to fly free via his movements.

Dean was panting and grinning when the music stopped, his eyes wide with excitement. Castiel walked up to his bowed position on the floor, extending his hand. There were trails of sweat glistening over Dean's abdomen, sliding into the waistband of the tutu. When Dean stood up again, the mirror behind him showed that he had soaked through his thin stretch cotton bikini. The material turning translucent and clinging to his buttocks, sliding deep between the cheeks. Castiel felt such a sudden and urgent pang of desire that he leapt back, startled by it. Dean's eyes were fixed on his, a determined expression furrowed his brows and suddenly he didn't look like Odette the innocent white swan any more. He was Odile, the seductress, marching up to Castiel and pinning him to the barre. The tutu scraped across Castiel's chest, chafing painfully and teasingly against his nipples. The masculine scent pouring off Dean and the soft silky panties pressing damply into Castiel's crotch made the angel sigh.

"Look at you Cas, those angelic blues and that handsome face," Dean said, tilting his head. "You look every part the charming prince. Do you wanna make me your princess?"

"Yes," Castiel said. "Yes."

"But the prince is under a magic spell, he thinks he is in love with another, and a kiss just ain't gonna do it," Dean pressed himself hard into Castiel, catching the tip of his erection between abdomen and pubic bone. "What do you think would work, Cas?"

Castiel felt human in that moment. He felt overwhelmed by human urges as he spun Dean around, grabbing hold of a sweaty back and pushing it forward. Dean gasped when the coldness of the mirror slid against his chest and cheeks, his legs parting as Castiel grunted as he pushed the tutu out of the way. Then there was a kiss, on the globe of one cheek then another, turning into a hard bite that wrenched a whimper of pleasure from Dean. Dean balanced on one foot, en-pointe, and threw the other leg up over the barre. Baring himself blatantly to Castiel's gaze. Then the angel lost himself in all the kissing and worshipping he had ever dreamed of. In forgotten dreams of love.

Dean bent almost double at the waist as Castiel finally pulled his mouth away. "Cas, come on, wanna feel you, wanna feel full."

Castiel pulled up and tugged urgently at his tights, the encasing hosing rolling down his waist in a tight ring. He managed to pull his cock and balls out, though the tights still applied exquisite pressure just behind his balls. Knowing that his angelic nature, though depleted, meant that his flesh was still incorruptible by disease and having tasted the healthy and vitality in the tight squeeze of Dean's saliva filled entrance, Castiel slid in with a groan. Dean was wet and hot and strong. He moved with the rhythm of Castiel's hard thrusts, his lungs emptying of luscious sighs and melodic moans at each push.

"Need it Cas," Dean wailed when Castiel moved onto his toes and aimed for the tensed nub in the heart of Dean, sliding and pressing upon it staccato. Dean's neck softened as he leaned forward to open up his spine and his whole body to accomodate Castiel. His head drooping close to his knees, till finally he was pillowed upon it, his arm wound around his own uplifted leg, hugging it, weeping into his own thigh as Castiel followed the allegro to tempo of the music to its clashing climax.

"Need this, need you, miss you," Dean cursed in bitten off words and came shivering and tearful, smearing the mirror.

They dropped to the ground in a graceless heap and Dean laughed when he saw the creamy discharge on the wall.

"I love you Cas," Dean said into Castiel's throat, kissing sloppy and sweet all the way to his mouth.

Castiel, eyes screwed shut, in pleasure and despair whispered. "I love you too, Dean."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was less uproar than expected when Castiel gave Dean the role of the black swan. Castiel filled up with dreadful expectation when Sam Winchester finally made an appearance during an impromptu inspection of the ballet academy. He was exactly as Castiel had pictured, a tall man with a friendly face and elfin eyes that were jet black. Castiel had seen black eyes before, Lucifer in his true form had empty abyss dark eyes. Sam's was different, there were speckles of light in their depths, twinkling almost invisible like far off galaxies. How can evil have stars in its core? Castiel wondered to himself but then again he was growing accustomed with dichotomous inconsistencies of late. How was he going to complete his angelic mission when he had fallen for a human like Dean? What of his angel blade and sworn allegiance to the army of heaven. What of Naomi and Michael and all of those details. Why did they all fade to nothing when he was inside Dean, or laying in his arms, or sitting beside him, or standing near him, or watching him dance, or seeing him breathe or breathing the same air. How does he act the cool commander before the rest of the troupe when every night he shuddered to completion in Dean's embrace. How did he watch and adjust and applaud Dean's performances and then reward him with fingers, mouth and cock in the vacated change rooms. Soiling his own tights and then putting them on Dean and watching him squirm and itch and touch himself in them. It was sordid and splendid all at once and it was with sadness that he saw the official letter that stated his production of Swan Lake had been chosen for exhibition in a private performance for the allusive Dean Winchester.

Sam Winchester must have been satisfied by what he found at the inspection.

"I thought that's what you wanted," Dean whispered into Castiel's ear, wrapping his arms around the angel's suddenly chilled shoulders. "I know that's what your goal is, to make peace between angels and America. Isn't this what you have been working towards?"

"Is peace even possible?" Castiel asked Dean. "We have been so long at war."

"But you're not one of them, not really," Dean touched his hand to Castiel's chest, above his heart. "You're as human as I am. So it's us against the world, not me versus you."

"After the performance, I will not be here any longer," Castiel said regretfully. He would be fleeing or dead.

"I wanna keep you forever," Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, they were warm like his long begone wings. "Stay with me Cas, stay always."

"And you would love me forever?" Castiel asked.

"Forever, Cas, long as I live," Dean said sincerely, sealing the weight of his words with a kiss on Castiel's lips.

How long would that last? Thought Castiel. A hundred years if he tried to prolong Dean's life with his own grace, what little was left. He had known such a thing was possible, if an angel copulated with a human and did not conceive a niphilim, the angel could touch the human lover with grace. Intermingle grace and soul, till neither were quite what they once were. He did not have enough. He was not enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Freedom was an indefinable thing and it came at a price Dean could no longer pay. It required patience and time indefinite and Dean had run out of both. He might have looked, from the outside in, like a fresh faced young man but the years wore heavy on his soul. Dean had forgotten how blood pumped or the heart’s pulse quickened till Castiel’s plane glided home on the tarmac. The cold faced angel descending in quick light-footed steps, feet gloved by military issue high boots, was like the Castiel of old. Half or a whole century ago, when Dean first met him in an anonymous barn, before angels were a thing. Dean has forgotten the year they first met, but he remembers the stubborn triumphant look in Castiel’s eyes, blue globes bulging in the skull of his lovely face as Dean sunk in Ruby’s blade to the hilt. Dean had felt the give of the heart around the sharpened point of the dagger, the pop of succulent flesh, the grip of muscle around the hilt and seen the glory of the angel blaze immortal in that magnificent face. For a man without faith in anything but annihilation, Dean had found a profound reminder of his own humanness. Castiel’s strength made his own frailty of mind and body bearable. The cunning innocence of Castiel’s rebellion seemed the inverse of Deans chaotic resistance against the gods and monsters. Those heady days of statelessness roaming from place to place, connected via nothing but highways, liberty succoured by gas stations and wayward wanderings. The hunt and the despair of always being hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. 

It was only in victory that Dean had known true defeat. Though it had tasted sweet for sometime. The first twenty years were, in his own venacler, awesome. At least in America, Dean and Sam had managed by the skin of their teeth to convince enough hunters and train enough citizens to prevail against any angels taking control of the states. The bitterness came in watching Europe, Asia and Africa fall under the control of the archangels. The efficient carving up of the world into separate spheres of power by the likes of Michael and Lucifer. People were afraid and it had taken Sam standing for political office to settle down the panic. After thirty years, Dean found himself and his brother in high office, somehow he was the President and Sam his VP. In a country that was righteous but not quite the land of the free any longer. It cut Dean up to take control, every law and edict ate away at him. The closure of the schools, the militias, the impenetrable borders, the seaports laying in waste, the freeways to nowhere. Dean grew despondent and aged in thoughts and beliefs, though Castiel had remained by his side faithful and unchanged. Till the failed peace talks where Castiel was taken captive by the angels and Dean had thought he would never see Castiel’s return. But return Castiel did, time and again. Always a harbinger of doom but welcomed like a lover with open arms. Always worthy, always yearned for. 

This incarnation of Castiel was a ballet dancer and the things he could do with limbs and torso and rhythm defied gravity. Dean had known him immediately, as soon as Dmitri Krushnic became a performer, he had treasured every scrap of news and every image of the dancer. Dean had a hand to an extent in the fame Castiel’s stage persona enjoyed. When news came that Castiel was going to arrive in America as an cultural envoy for the Russian Ballet Acadamy, Dean had concocted something of a cover to be near him. A general assistant in the ballet school Castiel would instruct at, he had planned to stay in the shadows and admire from afar. 

Almost immediately, Dean betrayed himself. His chest near bursting with anticipation as the spectre of Michael jet appeared on the horizon. Some wild flowers growing through the cracks in the badly maintained concrete runway had caught Dean’s eyes. He had run out of his secured vehicle, grabbed fistfuls of the blue blooms like a fanatic with a crush and greeted Castiel in the guise of a chauffeur. Castiel had not recognised him, Naomi must have reset him again under Michael’s command. Dean had regretted his impulsive actions. The less Castiel knew about Dean the better, because they had danced this dance before and it always ended the same way. 

Dean watched in despair as Castiel rehearsed and prepared for the special performance to be given before the President. Himself. The weeks in which Dean could pretend to be some youthful untainted version of himself, the Dean before the apocalypse ended all too quickly. This was necessary and inevitable, Sam had said. 

“Tell him who you are,” Sam said simply the night before the performance, when Dean was leaving their residence, a duffle in hand with a change of clothes. 

“He knows who I am,” Dean said with certainty. “Deep down.”

“All the more reason to say it outloud,” Sam’s eyes were glowing pits and Dean did not find them frightening. The liquid darkness velvety and warm, the smooth face with its crooked smile had a hint of the maverick cockiness Sam had back in Stanford. 

Stanford was now a military base and a training camp for hunters. The years had brought them compromises but now with Castiel back in America, the three of them almost reunited, the end seemed bearable notwithstanding the means by which the Winchesters had arrived at this point. 

Which was worse, Dean pondered as he switched on the Impala. Feeding off demon blood or angel grace? Which was the greater sin? Which brother more culpable?  
88888  
Dean was questioning himself on everything these days. Was he right to hold the position he had in America? Was it a problem that people thought of his family’s control of the United States as ruling? Wasn’t that just one step away from king? Could he and Sam had done anything differently to avoid the current jigsaw of a fractured world? Should he tell Castiel of all that history between them? Dean was full of second guessing and hesitation and fear. He had tried to tell Castiel many re-sets ago, on the second or third assassination attempt Michael had sent Castiel on, it had driven Castiel to his knees, holding his head in his hands like his neck could no longer bear the weight of the truth. He should have left Castiel alone, let him dance, let him wait for an audience with Dean Winchester that would never come - but Michael was right Dean could never resist Castiel in any incarnation, in any context. 

So now here they were, Castiel in the white ensemble of the prince. Glowing pearlescent tights and naked torso glimmering beneath the stage lights. The music swelling as the swans cleared the stage, leaving Castiel alone, his back bowed. Dean could see the perspiration over his brow, dripping onto the stage floor. Then the angel lifted his head and peered at Dean with questioning eyes, his hand held palm up. Dean’s feet moved of their own accord as if magnetically drawn to Castiel. The soft lulling music pulling him forward and Dean wasn’t an ancient warrior trapped in a dystopic nightmare. He was the Dean who never heard the call to arms, who never became an instrument of death. The Dean of silk and elegant floating movements accomplished by powerful muscles and the only thing that Dean killed was the meaninglessness of existence. Spinning on his pirouette, the world tumulted like a galaxy of darkness and star pointed lights, recreated into beauty for beauty’s sake. 

They danced and it might have been a few minutes, or a few hours, or a decade. 

“Where is Winchester?” Castiel whispered during a scenery change. 

“He is coming,” Dean said, they watched the other dancers flee the stage, clearing out via the exits. “Security protocol, just you and me and him.” 

Castiel nodded and spun Dean around, the orchestra withdrawing but the music kept playing via an aged record. The sound suddenly muffled and of a mellower timber over the speakers. 

“Eyes on me,” Dean said, tilting Castiel’s head by the jaws, his grip firm and birdlike mimicking the violent black swan. 

Castiel’s wrapped around him, not touching, Dean slipped in and out of his grasp. Arching his back, pushing out his chest, the haughty seductress. The warlock’s witchy daughter bespelling the innocent prince. Castiel stopped looking up at the presidential balcony. Dean pushed his body into Castiel’s and grabbed him by the shoulders. They spun and kicked and leapt like spinning tops, clashing hard into each other, moulding hands to hips and groin and knees so that they could take turns lifting and throwing one another. Like birds at war in a mating battle for each other’s attention. The music stopped and the lights were all out, except for the single spotlight and with one fluid movement of his legs, Castiel pulled Dean into the rich darkness and kissed him, back against the floor, feet splayed inelegantly, mouth panting. It was fast and brutal and Dean comes with such shuddering surprise that he cries out. The sound clear and high pitched floating to the ceiling. 

The lights turn on one by one and Castiel stared up at the empty balcony. Then he looks down again, the hand with the angel blade halted. 

“Yes,” Dean nodded. “I’m Dean Winchester.”

Castiel’s eyes barely narrow before the blade descends, slashing across Dean’s cheek, the shallowest graze which Castiel suddenly kisses and licks clean. 

“You better take me in,” Castiel said simply. “I am here to kill you.”

Dean nodded. 

“Imprison me, or I will carry out my mission,” Castiel added. 

Dean nodded again, acquiasing, touching the palm of his hand to Castiel’s temple. “I know.” 

“I love you,” Castiel said as an afterthought. 

“I know that too,” Dean replied.

=*=*=*=

Dean waited for Castiel in the garden. Charlie Bradbury, subsisting through the years on magic, escorted him there. She didn’t carry any arms, hadn’t needed to ever since she learnt to cast spells after the road trip around America with Rowena. Dean watched as Castiel walked through the arched doorway, gaze swinging slowly around from statue to statue. 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel said, his voice gravelly from lack of use. He had not spoken to anyone since the performance. Not to Sam who questioned him, or to Charlie who guarded him. Dean had been as patient as he could, but Castiel had been silent even with Dean. “So this is the Garden of Angels.” 

“Do you recognise them?” Dean asked. 

“Samandriel is the one with the bow,” Castiel said calmly. “And there is Gadreel holding the sword.” 

“Sam discorporated their grace and petrified their vessels,” Dean said. “When they attacked. I had them all preserved here.” 

“As forewarning?” Castiel asked. 

“As remembrance,” Dean bowed his head. “It was done under your advice.” 

Castiel frowned. “Why would I advise such a thing?”

“You wanted me to be vigilant, to know the danger my life is in constantly. We used to sit here and you would tell me about each angel. What they liked, what they abhorred, how they fared on earth, how they came to be controlled by Michael. You told me the story of each one so that they are not forgotten,” Dean stared at Castiel. “So now it is my turn to tell you a story.” 

Dean told Castiel the story of Team Free Will, how Castiel was captured protecting Dean and Sam during the angel apocalypse. How Naomi brainwashed him to forget them and turn him into an assassin for Michael. Dean explained that Castiel had tried to assassinate him many times, each time unable to do so due to his profound love for Dean. The last assassination attempt, Dean was an old man on his death bed and rather than kill him, Castiel impulsively drained his grace into Dean to make him live, inadvertently returning him to relative youth. Castiel had drained himself beyond the point of replenishment so he was starting to age and practically human. 

“Practically?” Castiel asked with a trembling voice. 

“You will grow old with me, we will age together this time,” Dean said with a smile. 

Castiel looked stunned at first, an angry flinty light coming into his eyes. 

“If what you say is true and I know in my heart it is,” Castiel glared. “I will not let age corrupt your flesh, or the years wither your will.” 

Dean gasped as Castiel caught his collar in his hands. “I can see the strain in this land and the price you and Sam have paid to maintain the resistance against the angels. The tax upon your citizens, all that they have sacrificed so that they are free of angelic interference. I know it is not ideal, to be the only country left in the world untouched by the archangels. It might seem futile from where you sit on your lonely throne but your existence is a defiance symbolic of hope. I have hope enough in you Dean and that is worthy any amount of grace.” 

It was Dean’s turn to shake now as Castiel picked up his hands and kissed the back of each one. Stooped to touch their mouths together. Dean felt himself pulled upwards and forwards into Castiel’s warm embrace. All the deceit and misrepresentations melting away. The quiet evening light fading in the sky, the warmth of the garden and the heat of Castiel’s flesh suffusing into Dean’s bones. The slow careful movements turning rhythmic and satisfying. Dean pressed against the garden bench, the stone bearing their weight and each and every push of Castiel’s hips. When Castiel’s reached orgasm, he sighed with wide wild eyes, staring into Dean’s capturing every pleasured grimace. 

“That’s good Cas,” Dean held him encouragingly. “Let it out. Let it go.” 

Castiel dropped his forehead into Dean’s chest and came to a shuddering stop, relaxing into a deadweight that smooshed Dean against the stone. They were giggling when they rolled off the bench and onto the ground, landing on the sweet meadow grass. 

“I wanna stay like this,” Dean said laughingly. 

Castiel touched Dean, just a casual touch, like so many before and so many they had shared during their rehearsals, or in bed, or just now. This time though, Castiel’s fingertip lit up. Bright light, golden threads, curling down the length of the digit and pushing into Dean’s shoulder. 

“Cas?” Dean gasped, terrified. 

“It’s okay Dean,” Castiel fluttered his eyelashes trying to articulate his senses. “It’s the programming, my grace is draining into you. It must be a fail safe from Michael and Naomi, triggered by our coupling. They wanted this to happen, if I betrayed them.”

The lights grew stronger and Dean could see the supernova in Castiel’s eyes, the burning halo manifest over his brows, the flaming wings arched above like doom. He didn’t need to look at the ground to see the transformation of legs into stone. 

“Not gonna happen,” Dean said, fumbling urgently in Castiel’s trenchcoat. 

The angel opened his arms, placating and at peace. “It’s okay Dean …” 

“I said no,” Dean had the angel blade in his hands before even Castiel could catch up. He had it deep in his own chest, where the grace mingled with his blood, before Castiel could stop him. 

“Dean,” was all he heard from Castiel before his vision was swallowed by pain and darkness. 

=*=*=*=

“Plunging an angel blade into his own heart seems kind of dramatic, even for Dean Winchester,” Gabriel shrugged, looking the statues up and down. 

Sam blinked his onyx eyes. “I concede it was impulsive, but he it was Castiel turning to stone right before his eyes.” 

“How very … ballet,” Gabriel said the word like it was distasteful. “Like a dark fairy tale but with more dancing and sex.” 

“Are you going to stand there and mock them or are you going to help?” Sam said. 

“Haven’t I helped you enough over the decades?” Gabriel winked at Sam. “Given you the idea to use demon blood to keep yourself going. Sent you Rowena to strengthen your ranks. Worked to pass on information about Michael’s attacks? What more do you want from me sweet Sammy?” 

“A bloody war is imminent with Dean gone,” Sam said. “Bloodier than the apocalypse.” 

Gabriel sighed. “It is unfortunate.” 

“Unless of course America surrenders,” Sam arched his brow. “Which is where you come in, negotiate the terms of the surrender with Michael on our behalf. Intermediate.” 

“Is that all you want Sam? But anyone could do that. Lucifer or Raphael. Or you could go directly to Michael.” 

“Michael would never trust me if I offered it alone,” Sam smiled small and sardonic. “You must convince him of my sincere hopeless surrender.” 

“You involving me does seem to indicate something of your desperation,” Gabriel looked at the entangled lovers in front of him. Stone hands holding stone arms, stone lips upon stone cheeks. 

Sam’s dark eyes sparkled at Gabriel. 

=*=*=*=

Michael’s jet touched down smoothly on the tarmac. Two dozen angels flanked out around him as he walked towards the awaiting car. The streets were lined with hunters, or rather helplessly disarmed humans. They watched his car pass with grey faces, the anthem playing from loudspeakers all over the airport. Charlie Bradbury stood with a bunch of hot house grown red roses, her bruised face impassive as she pushed the bouquet forward. 

The performance theatre was packed. A conscripted audience filled up the rows. Michael was glad to see all the descendents of the prominent lines of hunters gathered. The Singers, the Trans, the Bradburys and of course the Winchesters. Or what’s left of them. Sam in the front seat, his mouth pursed, his black eyes solemn. Michael sat down beside, smugly adjusting his expensive suit jacket. The performance begins. The ballerina is Ruby in the black tutu of the swan, her partner is Meg in the white attire of the prince. Michael watched with a yawn as the music swelled and the humans danced in rough mimicry of the flight of birds. Like apes trying to grow wings, thought Michael, by the end of the performance they would see what angels looked like when they danced. The flaming swords, the stormy wrath. Michael breathed in deep and satisfied. The lights went out. 

Michael could see in the dark of course, but all he saw were props being brought to the stage by hurried humans. The scene when the spotlight was cast was inside a garden. There was water fountain, painted mountains and trees on silk screens, a grotesque statue of entwined lovers. One of them had wings. The other an angel blade embedded in his chest. 

Michaels eyes slid to Sam but it was too late, the demon eyes were crimson red and hands gripped his neck claw hard, the angel blade sunk into his throat and the grace poured out of the archangel in a pool of golden blood. Charlie Bradbury on his right was murmuring a spell and the last thing the archangel Michael saw was the glow of his grace reviving Dean and Castiel. 

It would take no time at all, Michael thought as his grace dissipated, for treacherous Gabriel and Sam and Dean and Castiel to join forces. They would quickly overthrow Raphael and Lucifer. The reign of the angels would end as Michael’s dreams ended. Michael could taste nothing but bitterness as his wings fizzled out. 

=*=*=*=

Lucifer opened his eyes. 

“Oh, its you guys,” he said pleasantly. “Heard you visited Raphael last month. Word is getting around that Castiel and Dean Winchester have retired from politics and are freelance assassin now? Killing off all the archangels except Sam’s pet Gabriel.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like us,” Dean replied casually from one side of the bed where he stood with the angel blade in his hand, his complexion stark against the assassin’s black he wore from head to toe. “Heya Luci.” 

“Brother,” Castiel said politely from the other side of Lucifer’s impressive four poster, a blade twin to that held by Dean in his fists. 

“Bother,” Lucifer said as both blades sunk home.


End file.
